The wolf pack

WITH the picket line half-hitched in its mouth the pinto dashed off at the distance-devouring gait of the pacer.

The Wolf had boasted his prowess to a derisive Annette, and the girl’s jeer was still pursuing him. But his boast was no idle one. And the girl who had derided knew well enough that was so. The Wolf, like his namesake, was a hunter, and brimful of the elemental life that was his.

He rode like an Indian on his splash-coated pinto. The Indian was there in his makeshift equipment. It was in the loosely dangling, moccasined feet; in the half-hitched, single rawhide line; in the close seat on a razor-like back. Then it was in his old buckskin suit, inherited from Pideau’s decaying wardrobe. It was in his acute, sunburned features, and in the all-seeing keenness of his fine, dark eyes.

Vanity helped to foster the likeness. The boy was proud of it. Nevertheless it was by no means artificial. It went deep. There were the long years of association with half-breeds to account for it. There was the wild life of the mountains, with their dour solitudes and vicious storms, and their everlasting call to the primitive. Then there were those pastimes, savage pastimes, which in early years, make so deep an impression. Without doubt the boy’s white-man heritage was deeply submerged.

The dogs had set off at their long-gaited, wolfish lope. They lived only for the chase, and the rare caresses of their youthful master. They were obeying now. For their movements were inspired by the inarticulate command which had fallen from the Wolf’s lips as he vaulted to the back of his pony.

The boy went without even a glance in the direction of his playmate. His whole interest had become absorbed in the two fierce creatures who had done their best to wreck the girl’s fishing, and create discord between their human companions. His mood was the enthusiasm of the hunter. For the chase of the timber wolf never failed in its vivid appeal.

But that which he had foreseen failed to mature. He had looked for a swift heading for the ford, a few hundred yards farther down the river. He had expected a crossing to the distant woods beyond, on the eastern slopes of the valley. That had clearly been the direction of the dogs’ concern.

Nothing of the sort happened. Rene, the bitch, had, as always, taken the lead. The less responsible Pete had boisterously attempted to head her. But the lady would have none of him. She slashed at him with vicious teeth, and flung him savagely back to her shoulder. She passed the river ford as though she had no knowledge of its existence, and headed down the valley in the determined manner of one whose mind is clearly made up, and refuses to be deflected from her purpose.

The boy speculated. Why? His mind was acutely questioning. Why this sudden and unaccountable abandonment of the direction which had stirred the dogs to such profound disquiet? Had Annette been wiser than he? Had the dogs been concerned for something which had nothing to do with wolves? He was inclined to doubt his own first judgment.

The chase carried him on down the valley along the course of the meandering river. And it was a run that appealed to all that was primitive in him.

The day was brilliant, and the world about him was vividly gracious. The still, hot air was full of that tang which only ten thousand feet of elevation could give it. And the limitless spreads of forest on the valley slopes, and the dense woodland bluffs, which dotted the park-like bosom of the vast hollow, were a ripe monotony of green.

It was a panorama of wild beauty. And from the snowy glaciers on the mountain tops, which shone in the summer sun, to the verdant delights of the valley’s heart it was a world the Wolf claimed for his own.

They raced over the open. They searched their way down the leafless aisles of shadowed pine woods. Sometimes they were hugging the river bank. And again they were often a mile and more away on the higher ground, avoiding swamps of perilous muskeg. There were times when the hunting dogs were quite lost to view, and only an occasional whimper afforded a clue to their whereabouts. There were others when the pinto was close on their heels sharing the enthusiasm of the chase despite the sweat streaming into its lean flanks.

On, on they went towards the goal which the wise old Rene had so determinedly selected for the run.

In the Wolf’s mind there was no longer any doubt. The husky was heading for the decoy shelter which the cunning mind of Pideau had designed, and his hands had set up years before.

It lay beyond the muskeg defences of the valley, and was at once a resting place for the spoils of Pideau’s cattle raids, and a carefully designed bluff to fool any chance pursuer to whom ill luck might have revealed his trail.

Why had the dog chosen such a destination, and run for it till she was ready to drop from sheer exhaustion?

Stiff and sore from the lean back of his pony, the Wolf had dismounted. He had tethered the weary beast, and now stood gazing down upon the dogs crouching at his feet.

It was the bitch, Rene, that held his attention. She had sprawled herself on the rotting underlay of the forest, and her slavering jaws were resting on outstretched forepaws. Her fierce eyes were searching the cover in the direction of the clearing which lay ahead.

The boy’s dark eyes wore an indulgent smile. To his mind there was something almost humorous in the dog’s attitude. Her whole pose seemed to be saying:

“Well, here I am, and I go not a step farther. I brought you here, and now it’s up to you.”

For some moments he stood considering. Then of a sudden he stooped.

Rene remained unresponsive. But Pete, with the male dog’s greater demonstrativeness, drew himself nearer to the hand whose caress he sought. The Wolf, however, gave him no heed. His hand fell gently on the narrow head of the bitch, and he talked to her in a fashion she seemed to understand.

Once she raised her head and licked the caressing hand. And her narrow eyes told plainly she was doing her best to interpret his every spoken word.

At last the boy stood up again and turned away. The dogs would obey him. They would remain just where they were until they received his fresh commands.

The Wolf was carrying his rifle ready for immediate use. What he expected to discover as he moved towards the edge of the clearing he did not know. Speculation, wonder; these things had passed from him. And in their place had come a feeling of profound disquiet.

It was just a little queer, that sense of apprehension. It was quite foreign to him. Young as he was, the Wolf’s nerves were tuned to the worst the mountain wilderness could show him. Never in his life had he known real fear. Not even in his earliest days, when Pideau’s savage hand had fallen heavily upon him.

He moved on, a shadow amongst the leafless trunks, and, like a ghost, he glided over the intervening quarter of a mile which brought him to the tangle of undergrowth in the midst of which lay the clearing.

He paused and considered. Ordinarily he would have thrust his way through it without any hesitation. It would have been the simplest, most direct method of approach to his goal. But the thought of Rene still clung, and its influence refused to be dispelled.

He considered deeply and searched with all his eyes. Then he took his decision. There were two openings into the clearing. The one which Pideau had cut to the eastward, and the other, a natural, obscure pathway, on the westward side, not easy of discovery by the uninformed. He decided upon the latter.

It was at the moment of turning to move on that he became motionless. A terrific hubbub crashed through the silence. Grasping his rifle in both hands ready, he stood with eyes fearfully wide. Then he smiled a boyish grin at his own absurdity. It was only cattle. The sudden lowing of driven beasts. It was not a solitary bellow either. But a booming chorus. And it came from the heart of the bush in front of him.

Then his smile passed. Oh, he understood. Pideau had returned with a full bag from his raid. He was there in his hiding with his spoils. He was resting the beasts, and probably feeding them hay in the corrals from the stack that was kept stored for that purpose. Again he considered. And considering, he remembered his dog.

Then he thought of Pideau himself. He knew Pideau would resent intrusion; his intrusion more than anyone’s. His life in the doubtful shelter of Pideau’s home had taught him so much of the man. The half-breed’s veneer of tolerance was very thin. The man was desperately suspicious, too. He was suspicious of his own sister, Luana, and certainly contemptuously suspicious of himself. The only person who enjoyed his trust was Annette.

The Wolf was under no illusion. He knew well enough his sudden confronting of Pideau in his hiding would most certainly bring down an outburst of the man’s savagery upon his head.

So he set out for the pathway upon which he had decided.

From behind a leafy screen the Wolf surveyed the scene of the clearing. He was spying now, and he knew it. For the first time in his life he was using his hunter’s skill to discover Pideau’s secrets.

The clearing was small. It was just that area which had been sufficient to supply the necessary building materials for the small hut and the corrals which occupied it. The hut with its gaping doorway occupied the northern side. And facing it, in the centre stood three small corrals. Beyond these, at the southern extremity, stood the remains of a half-consumed stack of hay.

For the rest there was the smoulder of a dying camp fire before the doorway of the hut. And littered about it were the cooking chattels which had served their purpose. A saddled pony, streaked with sweat, and with its flanks badly tuckered, was hungrily feeding hay near by.

But the Wolf, in his hiding, had eyes for none of these details. It was the corrals, and the cattle they contained, and the hurried movements of the man who was feeding them, that held his interest.

The number of cattle staggered the boy. From where he stood it was impossible to estimate their numbers accurately as they surged and crowded for the hay that was being flung to them. Roughly, he thought there must be at least fifty. Pideau had stolen and driven fifty head of steers and milch cows from the plains single-handed! The fact was almost unbelievable. Never in his life had the Wolf known Pideau to attempt so large a haul.

From the cattle the Wolf turned to the half-breed himself. And if the former had inspired amazement, the latter startled him even more.

Pideau’s every movement told of haste and something else. He almost ran on his journeys between the hay and the corrals. Every now and then his dusky, bearded face was turned, and the Wolf could see its expression. Anxiety was written in every line of it.

But there was something about his doings of far deeper significance to the boy’s quick mind. Pideau’s work took him past the eastern entrance to the clearing on every journey. And every time he went to the stack empty-handed, he paused, searching the distance with eyes and ears.

Pursuit! The Wolf read the answer. Pideau was looking for pursuit, and pursuit meant either the red-coated police, or those who were far less to be feared, the settlers whose cattle Pideau had stolen. The half-breed was clearly in the grip of real fear.

The Wolf had no love for Pideau. But loyalty to him was almost as strong a bond. He realized instantly the thing he must do. If Pideau needed assistance it was for him to afford it.

In those moments an extravagant sense of his own manhood came to the boy. His soul was uplifted with a great joy, a superlative pride. He felt that his days of boyhood were over. He would be fighting beside Pideau on an equal footing.

The police? The Wolf knew what it meant to war with the police. Outlawry! Penitentiary! Even, possibly, hanging, if his weapon chanced to slay. Well, so be it. He grinned in complete disregard of all consequence.

Pideau was at the head of the eastern cutting. He had been standing there for many moments. He was listening. He was searching, too, with every faculty alert. Of a sudden he moved. The Wolf saw him make for his horse, snatch his rifle, which was slung on the horn of his saddle, and hastily mount.

The next moment horse and rider crashed their way through the undergrowth behind the hay store.

The Wolf made no movement. He, too, was watching and listening with every faculty alert. The sounds of Pideau’s hasty retreat died out abruptly. The boy was under no misapprehension. Pideau had not fled. He was not the man to abandon fifty head of cattle without a desperate fight. What next?

Fresh sounds came swiftly. They came out of the opposite distance. It was a low, soft hammering of hoofs over sun-baked soil, and the sound of it grew in volume, almost at the moment the Wolf first discovered it.

He was given no time for conjecture. In a moment, it seemed, the flash of red came to him a few yards down the forest cutting. In another, two red-coated horsemen raced into the clearing, and almost flung their horses on their haunches as they reined them up.

The Wolf’s rifle was pressed hard against his shoulder. His finger was on the trigger, that deadly hair trigger that needed little more than a breath of wind to release.

But his finger remained unmoving, and a wave of panic swept over him. His stomach nauseated as he realized the thing that had so nearly been accomplished. Death! Another instant and his rifle would have spat death at one of those red-coats. And he knew it would have been murder. Cold, deliberate murder without the extenuation of a battle in self-defence.

He lowered his rifle as one of the men flung recklessly out of the saddle. Then it happened.

The crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and the Wolf knew whence it came. The policeman in the saddle pitched headlong, and his horse reared and flung its dead rider to the ground.

The Wolf gasped. His breath whistled in his throat. A queer horror looked out of his eyes.

The man who had dismounted ran. He had drawn a revolver and was charging in the direction of the hay store. His revolver rang out. Then came two shots in swift succession. And the sound of them was identical with that of the shot which had emptied the other policeman’s saddle.

The Wolf saw the second man crumple. He pitched headlong on the sweet-scented grass, clutching at it as he fell. Then, face downwards, he lay quite still.